


Celestial Bodies (Pulled into Orbit)

by LoverCrowley (ShadowScale)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Manipulation, First Kiss, Fluff, Insecurity, Love Confessions, M/M, Religious Themes, Sexual Content, i promise a happy ending but they go through some stuff first, some tags refer to future content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-05-28 14:59:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19396546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowScale/pseuds/LoverCrowley
Summary: “If you meant it, say it again.”And if I lied and said I didn’t? Not that I could lie to you. Not that I ever would.“I love you.” The words drip off his tongue like honey, slow and sweet. Crowley shrugs his shoulders as he speaks as if to say, what of it?Now you know, what will you do?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Tags will be added with each chapter update.

“That’s new,” Crowley points out, jutting his chin towards a colorful shop on their path.

“Oh! Yes, it’s a flower shop! ‘Alice’s Flowers.’ I’ve been meaning to stop by and have a look, I’ve just been so busy lately.”

“Well, we’re here now,” Crowley replies, following Aziraphale towards the display.

They step inside and stroll along the aisles, eventually wandering off in different directions. After some time, Crowley stops looking at the flowers and simply stands in place watching Aziraphale from a distance. The gentle way he picks up potted succulents as if he were moving a sleeping baby. The way he shuts his eyes when he smells a flower as if to focus his senses. _Even for an angel, he’s so tender._

“Anything in particular you’re looking for?” 

Crowley jumps, and turns to see a woman standing next to him. Her name tag reads “ALICE.” She doesn’t seem to notice his reaction. 

“Oh, er.”

“We’ve got an especially nice batch of roses in.” Alice nods her head to the display in front of them. “Your partner was eyeing them earlier too. Although, it looks like he may be smitten by those sunflowers.” She notices Crowley stiffen a little and scrambles for words. “Oh! Are you not…? I didn’t mean to presume, I just- I’m in this area quite often and I’ve seen you two around…”

Crowley waves her off. It was hardly the first time some stranger had taken them as a couple, and he doubted it would be the last. What an odd pair they must look though. A complete clash of style. _And yet always paired together._

Aziraphale wanders back to them at last, a beaming smile on his face. “Isn’t this just a lovely shop, dear?”

Crowley only smiles at him. 

Alice prompts him, “Anything you’d like me to ring up for you?”

“Oh no, not today I’m afraid. I just wanted to have a look around. Though if I need something to brighten up my place, I’ll certainly be back here.”

“Of course, well I hope you two have a wonderful day.” Alice gives Crowley a sideways look, which the demon largely tries to ignore.

“Come on angel, let’s get going. It looks like it might start to rain soon.”

\--- 

They’re still a block from the bookshop when the first drops start falling, plummeting against the sidewalk in a steady patter. Aziraphale doesn’t comment that Crowley hadn’t been carrying an umbrella before, only thanks him for holding it over the two of them until they make it inside.

They hang up their coats, pour a couple glasses of wine, and fall comfortably into their routine of drinks and conversation.

Their discussions meander. They talk about wine (ones they’d like to try), about history (both things they were present for and not), about clothes (they subtly neg each other). They talk about stamps (designs and collectability), about philosophy (does tempting a goose really count as tempting [1]), about emojis (Crowley, shocked, relays something he learned. Aziraphale already knew about it [2]).

As Aziraphale launches into a speech about the erosion of shorelines and the importance of mangroves, Crowley ambles about the room and slips his glasses into his pocket. He offers comments and questions that he supposes are coherent, though he’s not sure. Aziraphale doesn’t call him out so he takes it that he’s still making sense despite having downed a few bottles already.

Crowley stops walking around, presses his forehead against a pillar and stares down at his feet. Aziraphale has looped back to talking about stamps somehow, and Crowley can feel himself losing focus though he can’t quite seem to make himself care. His thoughts wander back to the flower shop and the way Aziraphale’s eyes had dragged over the bright petals, the way he was slow to turn away from the plants and continue on home.

Had he wanted Crowley to buy some for him? Surely he would have said so, or bought them himself. Crowley can’t recall ever seeing any flowers – or any sort of plant – in the shop. Excluding, of course, the snake plant that Crowley had once given him. It had sat proudly in the display window for several weeks. Then it had disappeared. Crowley was certain it hadn’t died, but he’d never asked. _I’d hate to know if he just got rid of it._

Crowley’s mind lingers on Aziraphale himself. His dandelion fluff hair, ever the same since they’d first met in the Garden. Crowley wished the angel would let it grow out a bit, let the curls develop more. It would be a good look.

Crowley thinks about his eyes, blue as the sky on a perfect day. The kind of sky you could stare up at for hours. The kind of sky you could fly (or Fall) right into. The kind of sky you wanted to last, to never be marred by clouds or darkened by the coming of night. 

_If his are the sky, my own eyes are the sun._ Too bright, uncomfortable, necessary but not likely loved. No one would – could – spend hours looking at the sun. It was just as well. Crowley wore sunglasses for a reason after all. Taking them off sometimes felt like giving too much of himself away, even around Aziraphale who knew everything. _Not everything._

Crowley zones back into the conversation.

“…and THAT is why I’m not a Hufflepuff! [3] Not that I have anything against your house dear, but it just isn’t me.” Aziraphale finishes. 

Crowley turns so he is facing the angel, back against the pillar with his head tipped upwards slightly. 

“I love you,” he hears himself say. Except that can’t be right. He wouldn’t say that. Not out loud and certainly not within earshot of anyone. Especially not directly to Aziraphale’s face. That was crossing a line he’d tried very hard to stay very far away from. He must have imagined hearing himself say it. The aforementioned face stares at him though, curious, then disbelieving, then shocked. Crowley concludes he must have said it out loud after all. _Why did I say that?_

“What?”

“You heard me.” _Maybe he misheard me. That would be lucky._

“Sober up.” Aziraphale looks… angry. His eyebrows pull together, his eyes are dark, his lips press into a firm line.

“What?” Crowley finds his gaze fixed on Aziraphale’s mouth. _I’ve already crossed one line, what’s one more?_

“I said,” Aziraphale begins as he crosses the room.

Crowley hears the blow before he could process the feeling of it, before he could understand why his head is suddenly turned to the right instead of straight forward. An open palm against his face, a quiet sting. It wasn’t so hard of a slap really, but his balance was already compromised by the whole being-very-drunk thing so he was glad the pillar was at his back to stop him from toppling to the floor. It didn’t need to be a hard slap to get his attention.

“Sober. Up.” 

It isn’t anger, Crowley realizes. Anger was overconfident, anger blazed like fire, anger demanded. This was more like fear. It was loud to cover the insecurity. It was bright to compensate for its lukewarm nature. It begged. _Fear sounds too heavy. It’s apprehension, maybe. He could never fear me._

Crowley does as he is told, and the alcohol evaporating from his system leaves his head clear and his mouth dry. Drunk-Crowley had kind-of-sort-of regretted saying what he said. Sober-Crowley wanted to go back and punch him for it. He has the presence of mind to look embarrassed, to want to fold in on himself. He half considers zapping himself to the size of an atom to escape Aziraphale’s gaze, but a hand on his shoulder interrupts that particular thought.

“Now say it again,” Aziraphale murmurs. He raises his hand again but this time it is a gentle touch. A brush of his fingers against Crowley’s jaw, guiding him back to his face. The sky meets the sun. “If you meant it, say it again.”

_And if I lied and said I didn’t? Not that I could lie to you. Not that I ever would._

“I love you.” The words drip off his tongue like honey, slow and sweet. Crowley shrugs his shoulders as he speaks as if to say, what of it? _Now you know, what will you do?_

Crowley is searching Aziraphale’s expression for confusion or concern. For distress or disgust. He instead finds Aziraphale’s face much closer to his own and in the next second too close to see at all. He shuts his eyes. 

Lips slot against his own. They’re softer than he’d imagined – and he had imagined. It’s a pleasant pressure, a chaste offer by any gauge. Crowley’s hands feel glued to the pillar behind him. Even once he frees them, they hover in the air, afraid even a touch would be enough to pop this fragile bubble. Aziraphale pulls away.

“I should have asked if that was alright to do,” the angel says, and truly he looks half-apologetic. He looks as though he’d just given Crowley another slap instead of a gift.

Crowley is only half absorbing his words and his head swims as if the alcohol had returned, his mouth is no longer dry. He’s caught up in the lingering pressure on his lips and the ghost of an angel’s breath against his cheek. 

“Don’t be. It was more than alright.” Crowley leans close. “Can we do it again?” _And again, and again, and again?_

Aziraphale lets out an amused snort, his eyes shine. “Please.”

The distance is closed by Crowley. His hands are prepared this time and find purchase at Aziraphale’s sides, tugging him just slightly closer, holding him in place. His movement is more insistent than Aziraphale’s had been. The shock that this is happening at all, quickly gives way to hunger for more. The fingers snaking into the red hair at the nape of his neck only urge him on. Crowley parts his lips and swallows a groan, though he can’t tell whose throat it came from to begin with. Crowley wants to take, but he really wants to be given. He wants to hear him say-

“I love you too, Crowley,” Aziraphale manages to utter, in between the meeting of their mouths.

_Can he read my thoughts?_

Crowley’s hands snap from hips to lapels, and he’s spinning on his heel, slamming Aziraphale back against the pillar. They are nose to nose. Crowley recalls an event much like this one, though the scene was different then. A former-convent instead of a current-bookshop. _No one to interrupt this time._

Except that there is, apparently, someone. Crowley’s head turns first at the jingle of the welcome bell. With a sigh he takes a step back from the angel, runs a hand through his hair in mild frustration.

A man carrying two large cardboard boxes pushes in way into the shop, setting them onto a free table with a thud. “Delivery for,” he checks his clipboard. “Mr. Fell?” He looks between the two of them, oblivious to the scene he’d just intruded on.

“A-ah, those must be the- the new collections I ordered,” Aziraphale says, fussing with his bowtie and smoothing down his lapels as he goes to sign for the packages. “There you are, yes, thank you, have a nice day.” He fidgets as the man turns back out of the shop, the bell chiming once more then leaving them in silence.

Crowley is the first to break it. “I think I’m going to head out, too.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows shoot upward. “Wh- Are you sure? I thought…”

“I’d just like some space. To think. I’m sorry.” _I am sorry. I shouldn’t leave you like this but I must. I can’t go too fast again._

“Of course. Yes. I-I completely understand.” Aziraphale is smiling but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “A lot has just. Um. Just happened. Now. Here.” His eyes drop to the floor. “A lot to think about.”

“Right. Right. Then, I’ll be off.” He tucks his hands into his pockets and heads for the door.

“But- Crowley?” The demon pauses and looks back. He sees the bob of Aziraphale’s Adam’s apple as he swallows hard.

“Hm?”

“You will… come back?”

Heaven help him, the angel actually sounded worried. Like he truly thought Crowley could just abandon him after everything. After that. Crowley lets go of the door handle. He steps back toward him and cups his face, presses his lips to Aziraphale’s cheek.

“I promise. Nothing could keep me away.” _Not Heaven, not Hell, not anything Human. Nothing._ “I just need to settle my own mind a bit, okay?”

It is only after the door shuts and Crowley is back on the sidewalk, heading towards the Bentley that Aziraphale mumbles, “Okay.”

\---

[1] Aziraphale insisted that a) it only counted for humans to be tempted and b) gooses were certainly Hell’s to begin with. Crowley insisted the only animals with Hellish origin were the Hellhound and mosquito, and that the goose must have been a cock up on Heaven’s side.

[2] For someone who keeps up with modern fashions, Crowley is sorely behind on the nuances of modern communication. Sometimes, an eggplant isn't just an eggplant.

[3] Aziraphale is a Gryffindor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Kudos, comments, any type of feedback is super appreciated!


	2. Chapter 2

Aziraphale stands, looking at the door half hoping Crowley was only playing a bad joke, or would change his mind and come waltzing back in any second. The door remained closed.

He can’t help but feel worried about letting Crowley go like that. Perhaps it was for the best, to give them each some time to process things but… He promised he’d be back. Had he ever broken a promise? Aziraphale didn’t think so. But he couldn’t recall Crowley ever making a promise to him actually, so that thought did nothing to put him at ease. _He’ll be back. He never even left for Alpha Centauri, remember? He’ll be back._

Aziraphale turns and searches for something to do, something to distract him. “Ah, cataloging,” he says to himself, and picks up one of the boxes just delivered.

\---

Crowley is pulling at his hair as he takes long strides towards his car. “Stupid,” he mutters to himself. “Tell him you love him, then leave him standing there like a kicked puppy. What kind of bastard are you?”

He slides behind the wheel and rests his forehead against it. “But I couldn’t think with him looking at me. And I have to stop and think about this because I- I can’t ruin this. I can’t ruin us.” Crowley realizes he probably looks a little crazy to any passersby, him just sitting in his car talking to himself. He throws the gear shift into drive and hits the gas, clicking on the radio.

_Can… anybody… find me… somebody to… love…_

He turns the radio back off.

\---

Aziraphale can only be so distracted by cataloging, though he’s managed to nearly finish recording inventory of the first box. He sets down his pen and rubs a hand over his face, leans back in his chair.

“What is there to think about?” He had tried to push Crowley’s leaving to the peripheral of his thoughts but found he could stand it no longer. “He’s the one who started it, confessing like that.” _But I’m the one who kissed him._

“I suppose it… was a bit sudden. To do that after doing… well, after doing nothing for so long.” 

_You go too fast for me, Crowley._ Oh, how he hated that those words echoed in his head, had echoed in his head since he spoke them years ago. They seemed right, at the time. They seemed a gentle enough way to let him down, to tell him he wasn’t ready for anything more just yet. Someday he would catch up, but not yet.

Since then Aziraphale had had the occasional thought that he might have missed his chance. That Crowley could have lost his love for him, stepped back and settled into a place of comfortable platonic affection, realized he wanted Aziraphale as a friend and only a friend. Aziraphale had occasionally wondered if he shouldn’t have moved quicker himself.

But then today. Catching up someday had turned into catching up _now_ , and Crowley still loved him. Still loved him and yet, he’d pressed a kiss to his cheek and then walked out the door. Walked out needing some space.

_Will we ever be on the same page? Will we ever be heading in the same direction?_

Aziraphale finishes recording inventory of the first box. He looks up at the door. He starts on the second box.

\---

Crowley had gone back to his flat and paced for an hour or so, alternating between mumbling to himself and shouting at the walls. He had tried not to shout about thoughts that were particularly sentimental lest his plants overhear and start getting the idea he’d gone soft.

_I’m not soft, I’m a demon._

Still. He’d felt rather soft. 

Unless he let himself replay the memory of Aziraphale kissing him and running his hands up into his hair and groaning into his open mouth and- No, those thoughts slingshotted him from soft to the opposite side of the scale entirely. Crowley snatched his keys from the table top and headed back to the Bentley. Pacing his rooms wasn’t doing it for him, he wanted to go fast. _Fast but not too fast._

Another couple hours later, Crowley finds that he is lost. Well, on unfamiliar streets at least. He’d started driving and kept driving and then he let the Bentley drive itself, so he could think properly.

_I told him I love him._

In years past Crowley would have said his hesitation to ask for something more from the angel was because of their sides, because of the consequences they could face. Now they didn’t have sides, there were no consequences – at least none of ethereal or occult origin. The consequences were all up to them. Crowley didn’t trust himself to not screw it up. To not smash what they’d built over the past 6000 years into 6000 pieces, leaving their relationship a scattering of pottery shards on the dusty ground. Demons ruined things by nature, didn’t they? But maybe Crowley wasn’t especially demonic.

_He told me he loves me too._

That certainly couldn’t be left out of consideration. The wonder in his eyes, the way he’d kissed him – _Aziraphale_ had kissed _him_. The angel wasn’t rash, wasn’t impulsive, never was. He always weighed the options, considered the consequences, meticulously examined each and every detail that could impact the results. Aziraphale must have thought about it for some time. Must have come to the conclusion that kissing him then and returning his words was the best action to take.

_We love each other._

Crowley’s been happy. Okay that’s not quite the truth, but he’s been content with their relationship for years. Literally thousands of years. Stepping from platonic to romantic was something he’d thought about of course, but now being faced with that fantasy becoming reality, it seemed to be another animal entirely. And still. He wants it. There’s a real chance that Aziraphale wants it too. If that’s the case then Crowley is willing to let it all pan out. Otherwise, they’ll both wonder what could have been. 

Crowley sighs. There’s his decision, then. Placing his hands back on the steering wheel[1], Crowley turns the car around and heads for his favorite little shop in Soho. He presses his foot down and watches the speedometer needle climb, not wanting to make the angel wait a second longer.

\---

Aziraphale is shelving, softly humming to himself. He’s shifted some books around to make room for the new ones, sliding them into place one by one. “Tsk,” he grumbles to himself. Rearranges the last several books yet again. It’s the third time in the last several minutes that he’s started putting them in the wrong order. He just can’t seem to focus on what he’s doing, hands moving of their own accord, grabbing randomly from the box that rested at his feet and placing things while his mind wandered.

Even knowing Heaven doesn’t check up on what he uses miracles for anymore, Aziraphale still tries to keep them to a minimum[2]. He’s getting annoyed with himself though, and knows his mental clarity may not return anytime soon (certainly not before Crowley returns), so he looks around, as if there could possibly be anyone watching, and snaps his fingers. The box is empty, the books all neatly lined on the shelves. Aziraphale skims over them with his eyes to make sure they are put away correctly. 

He turns, leans back against the wooden slats and sighs. How long should he wait here? Crowley said he’d be back, but not when. Another hour? A day? A week? Surely not any farther from now than that. Could Aziraphale just stay here in the bookshop until then? Should he? If he went upstairs to the flat he’d have to lock the door and he might not hear Crowley knocking to come in. Sure, the demon could miracle it unlocked himself, or simply call, but he shouldn’t have to. No, it was better if Aziraphale was there for him. Aziraphale would be there for him, no matter which direction the demon decided to go.

\---

Crowley taps his fingers against the steering wheel, easing off the gas as he gets closer to the bookshop. It’s nearly midnight now. The streets are mostly empty and the shops are mostly dark and–

Crowley slams on the brakes pulls to the side of the road in front of a brightly colored storefront. The lights are still on inside and Crowley can see flower arrangements through the windows. He slides out of the driver’s seat and jogs toward the door, trying the handle. Locked. Rapping his knuckles against the glass, Crowley holds his breath. Alice appears after a moment, looks at him quizzically through the window then brightens and unlocks the door.[3]

“You’re here awfully late.” She smiles and steps aside to let Crowley enter. “Can I guess that your _angel_ sent you? Or is this meant as a surprise?”

\---

Crowley stands on the doorstep of the bookshop, flowers held carefully in one hand. He rocks back and forth on his heels trying to calm his nerves. Finally he takes a breath, swings the door open and steps in.

“You’re back.” Aziraphale says, straightening from his position against the book shelf.

“I promised I would be.” Crowley locks the door behind him. _No interruptions_.

“You did.”

“I wouldn’t break a promise to you.”

“You haven’t.”

Crowley’s eye catches on the shelves, distracted for a moment. “Did you… change these?”

“Oh, yes. I-I didn’t want to go upstairs to bed in case you came by, and since I was up I decided to er, go ahead and rearrange things like I’ve been meaning to.”

“Oh. Bed? You sleep?” Unless Crowley was very much mistaken, Aziraphale had thought of sleeping as a waste of time since, well since the beginning.

“I've picked up the habit.”[4] He fixes Crowley with an expectant gaze, hoping to move the topic along to more pressing matters.

Shifting, Crowley suddenly remembers his hands are clutched around something, and he thrusts the flowers at Aziraphale unceremoniously.

“Alice happened to be there still, working late since the shop is so new and has a lot to be done. I know it’s not exactly a common combination, roses and sunflowers, but Alice said they looked nice together. And I mean, I think they look nice together too you know, the red and the yellow. I was going to just get the roses because, well, that’s pretty classic isn’t it-”

The angel takes the flowers from him with a smile, miracling into existence a glass vase to fit them into. _Flowers are good. Flowers probably don’t mean ‘I want to pretend that whole thing never happened’ or ‘I’m not ready for this sort of thing now.’_

“-but then I remembered you’d been looking at the sunflowers so maybe that was a better choice and I just couldn’t decide what would be best, and thank goodness Alice didn’t suggest any other options or I would have been just so overwhelmed there’s-” 

“My dear,” Aziraphale breaks in, knowing otherwise Crowley would just go on, stalling as long as he could manage, talking until he ran out of breath.[5]

Crowley sucks in a lungful of air and holds it.

“They’re lovely. Thank you.”

The demon nods.

After a beat, Aziraphale moves to take a seat on the couch. He was sure their conservation was going to make things uncomfortable as it was, no need to add to the awkwardness by standing around. Crowley followed him, tugged along by invisible strings.

“So. I had my space, my time to think. I decided some things,” Crowley says.

Aziraphale nods slowly. “I’d like to hear it, then.”

“Okay. Right. Good.” He shifts in his seat, and clears his throat. “I… want to make you another promise. If you’ll have it.”

Azraphale raises his eyebrows, waits for Crowley to continue.

“I want to pursue this… us… romantically,” he says thickly, struggling to find the words that sound right. He’d tried not to rehearse his words earlier, wanted them to be organic. A part of himself was regretting that just now, but the moment had come. 

“I love you totally and completely, Aziraphale, every part of you. If you love me even a fraction of how much I love you – and I think you do – then it seems wrong not to try.”

Crowley fixes his eyes on Aziraphale’s bowtie, not wanting to turn away but not quite able to meet his eyes. “I want to promise that I’ll take things as fast or as slow as you want. That I’ll make you happy, however I can. If you realize in a day or in a year that that’s best done by us being strictly friends, then so be it, but first I think we… We’re better together. At least I know I’m better with you. And I’d like to be _together_ ,” he tilts his heads as he emphasizes the words. “If you’ll have me, that is. If it’s something you want.”

He hears a sniffle, looks up to see Aziraphale’s eyes welling up, looks up just in time to see a tear flood over and down his cheek like the first drop of rain to start a storm.

“O-oh I didn’t -! I didn’t mean to-” Crowley scrambles for words. Maybe he should have rehearsed after all, avoided saying something wrong. _What did I say wrong?_

Aziraphale lunges forward on the couch and wraps his arms around Crowley’s neck, burying his face against his shoulder. “I love you more than a fraction, Crowley. I love you entirely, endlessly. I promise that I’ll make you happy too.”

Crowley holds him tight, hands against his back, fingers spread against soft worn tweed. His mind is reeling, processing. _Then I wasn’t wrong, thank Someone._ “So you-”

“I’ll have you. I want you. Us.” The angel moves to press their foreheads together. “I’ll have whatever you wish to give me, and I’ll give you the same.”

“You can have everything, Aziraphale.”

\---

[1] They’d been resting in his lap for the last several miles.

[2] When possible, he gets Crowley to do things for him.

[3] Despite having a rather edgy exterior look, Alice could sense that Crowley was sweet at heart. That, coupled with how she had seen him act around Aziraphale, led her to have no hesitation about letting this strange man into her shop at midnight, even with no one else around.

[4] Given that there is no longer any need for him to be looking after an Antichrist, or filing reports for Heaven, Aziraphale found he has more free time. He started spending some of that free time sleeping.

[5] And since neither of them technically need to breathe, that could have been quite long indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *whew* so that happened, huh?
> 
> As always, I’d love to hear your feedback!  
> Also, I'm still trying out to figure out how to link the footnotes together.


	3. Chapter 3

Peals of laughter reverberate through the bookshop and Aziraphale nearly sloshes half his glass of wine on the floor when he doubles over.

“Was that really you?!”

“It was. And I can tell you, I certainly left it out of my report to Hell.” Crowley is holding back his own laughter, but just barely.

Aziraphale clutches his side, gasps for breath. Crowley watches him, grinning. Admires the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, loves that he can make this usually restrained angel laugh so uproariously.

“So you- you can’t go back to Ireland?”

“Not ever.”

Aziraphale devolves into snickers again, holding a hand over his mouth to muffle himself. When he calms, still breathing hard, he runs a hand through his hair. “I think- I think I’m going to sober up.”

“Alright. I suppose I will too. I don’t think either of us have had quite this much to drink in a long time.” Crowley glances at the collection of bottles littering the table, then watches Aziraphale stand and stretch, joints cracking into place. Watches his eyes light up when he turns and sees the vase of flowers still sitting near the door.

“I should take those upstairs before I forget.” 

“You don’t want to leave them down here?” Crowley sits up from his slouched position on the couch, frowning.

“Oh, no dear. I love looking at them, but I would hate if someone were to bump into a table and knock them over or something.” He takes the vase carefully in his hands. “I’ll go put them somewhere special.” He starts up the stairs. Pauses. “You can ah, come up too. If you’d like.” 

Aziraphale doesn’t wait to see if he follows. 

Crowley does follow. 

He hasn’t been up the stairs since shortly after the bookshop had opened and the angel had given him a brief tour. Back then it was little more than mostly empty rooms, and Crowley expected it to look much the same. It didn’t. 

The living room, though small, has been furnished with plush seating and a scuffed wooden coffee table. Art covers the walls, pieces ranging in style from abstract to impressionism. There are bookshelves, but they are filled with books than with photos and knick-knacks picked up over the years. The style is different from downstairs, but still comforting, cozy. Everything still says _Aziraphale_.

Crowley follows him through his flat, stopping short when the angel opens a door and steps into his bedroom. Crowley lingers just outside the doorway. 

“Are you a vampire, that I must invite you in?” Aziraphale teases. It’s the first acknowledgement he’s made of the demon following him up. Crowley slinks over the threshold. 

“ ‘S sort of personal, a bedroom.” Aziraphale only hums in reply, and Crowley isn’t sure what that means, if anything. He looks around. There are fewer personal affects here than the living room, a more tidy look overall. The bed is neatly made, piled high with pillows and a thick cream colored blanket, pristine white sheets underneath.

Crowley watches Aziraphale set the vase by the window, on a table with two shelves, and something else there catches his eye. A verdant something that contrasts with the neutral palette of the rest of the room. He steps closer, raises his eyebrows. It’s a snake plant. A very healthy looking snake plant in fact. A very familiar one. It trembles slightly as Crowley approaches. 

Aziraphale brushes the back of one hand over a leaf and it stills. “Is your method of gardening still intimidation?”

“Yeah, it works for me. You still have it? The plant.”

Aziraphale blinks. He looks from Crowley to the plant and back again, somewhat puzzled. “Of course. I may not be the best at taking care of living things but a snake plant really doesn’t require that much maintenance. Although I have had to transfer it to a bigger pot since you gave it to me.” He taps a finger against the glossy red finish of the pot he’d chosen. “I think it’s been growing very well.”

_That answers that mystery. He didn’t get rid of it. He moved it somewhere special._

Crowley is touched by the notion but keeps it to himself. He leans down to peer at the contents of the second shelf. There’s a stack of books, one of which is a first edition Wilde[1]. Beside it, at the top of a stack of papers is what appears to be a script to Hamlet[2]. A mason jar filled with sand and seashells sits there too, and Crowley smiles softly at it[3]. 

The sun is up, sending light through the sheer curtains. A tiny rainbow appears on the table where light shines through the vase Aziraphale has just placed.

“Morning already.” Crowley says, realizing they had talked all night. “Do you need to open the shop today?”

“Hm? Yes. I should go tidy up the bottles and glasses we left down there,” the angel replies, starting back towards the door.

Crowley catches Aziraphale’s hand and presses a kiss to it, then to his cheek, the corner of his mouth, nips at his lower lip and kisses him slow. “Are you _sure_ you need to open the shop?” Crowley asks, dropping his voice down into a gravelly tone.

Aziraphale’s cheeks go a bit pink. “Unfortunately, a few students made appointments to come look at some of my more unique texts, so I really can’t stay closed today[4]. But you’re welcome to stay. Here, or downstairs.”

“Ah, that’s alright. I’ve got some things I can go take care of.”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course. I can check on the plants, work on some of my other hobbies. Have some fun causing mischief.” He wiggles his eyebrows.

Aziraphale shakes his head. “Don’t cause too much trouble.”

\---

Crowley leaves the shop smiling. He feels like he just might smile endlessly, that his face might freeze that way, locked permanently in a display of his jovial mood.

He settles into the driver’s seat of the Bentley and his smile slips, shatters. Instantly he is out of the car, whipping around to look back. But there is nothing and no one out of the ordinary. No hauntingly familiar faces.

Except there had been, when he’d looked into the rearview mirror. There had been someone standing there, with an oversized frog and a haphazardly placed wig. Pale skin and dark eyes. Hastur.

Crowley circles the car twice and walks halfway down the block and back before getting back inside. He checks the mirror. Still nothing. He turns on the radio. Just music. His heart slows to a normal pace.

_A trick of the light, that’s all. No reason that anyone from Hell would come to visit. No reason at all._

Still, first thing upon reaching his flat Crowley calls the bookshop, breathes a sigh of relief when he hears Aziraphale’s voice, knows nothing has happened to him.

“Is something the matter?” The angel asks.

“Oh, no! No, I just um. I wanted to know what would be a good time to come back. So I can plan out my wiles for the day.” He can hear Aziraphale cluck his tongue at this last sentence. 

“I don’t imagine anyone will stay past four or five this afternoon. But really, there’s no need for you to be out just because they’re here.”

“Do you really want me around, tempting students?” There is a pause and Crowley can practically hear Aziraphale thinking about how that would go.

“I’ll see you at five.”

\---

Crowley turns on the radio in his bedroom and flops down against the mattress, silk sheets smooth against his cheek. He lays there for a long time, turning over and over. He thinks about Hastur, about Hell, about Aziraphale. Thinks about the snake plant in Aziraphale’s bedroom, the collection of things in his living room. Thinks about his own flat and the few decorations he kept out in the open. The wrestling statue, the Mona Lisa sketch, the plants. The plants.

Crowley sits up and realizes he hasn’t check on them in a few days. Well, he’d glanced at them the day before, but he’d been rather too preoccupied to give them any proper attention. He slides off the bed and grabs a mister. The radio plays on.

_Babe, there’s something lonesome about you_

_Something so wholesome about you_

The song fades to nearly inaudible as Crowley heads away from the source, but he hums along. He knows every note and lyric of it after all.

He only takes a couple minutes to check his plants, giving them each a quick once over and spritzing a bit of extra moisture at one that seems slightly less lustrous than he last remembers. He narrows his eyes at it and mutters, “You be careful,” as he heads back out of the room.

He expects to hear the last few lines of the song as he walks down the hallway. Instead he hears a crackly noise. The radio is playing static. The song picks up again just as Crowley steps into his bedroom.

_…outside your door._

Sometimes radios get staticky. Nothing to worry about. It was just the end of the song, not a message, no need to check the door.

Crowley doesn’t check the door.

He still doesn’t check the door.

He checks the door.

He peers through the peephole, out into the hallway. There is nothing. No one. He lets out a breath. _It’s fine. If Hell wanted you they would come by force, not by ominous and vague appearances behind the car, or strange radio usage. It’s fine. You’re fine._

He doesn’t feel fine. He feels paranoid. He almost calls Aziraphale again but doesn’t want him to worry over what was probably nothing.

Crowley wanders into his study, grips the back of his chair and tries to relax. He takes a deep breath, and lets it go slowly. His eyes flick down to his watch. 

“Plenty of time to start something,” he says to himself. “Get my mind off this nonsense.”

The demon clears his desk except for a messy stack of paper, then steps around it to pull aside the window curtains. Light pours in brightening the whole room, sending shadows back against the far wall. When Crowley settles back into his chair he rummages through the desk drawers pulling out brushes and containers of paint. He sets to work.

\---

“Ah, I was just thinking about you.” Aziraphale says.

“Were you?” Crowley crosses the bookshop floor and gives him a gentle peck on the lips.

“Mhm. I should have guessed you would be punctual about coming back.” It’s nearly five on the dot.

“How were the students?”

“Very nice, they wanted a peek at some of my more obscure Victorian literature. One of them brought me a lovely cherry danish.”

“I don’t suppose you saved me a bite?”

“Not a chance,” Aziraphale replied with a laugh. “Want to head up?”

“Sure. Feel like having a glass of wine?” Crowley asks as he follows him up the stairs.

“I’m more in the mood for a cup of tea, really.”

“Alright, sounds good to me.”

Aziraphale starts the kettle then joins Crowley on the loveseat, curling close. 

“What about you, what trouble did you cause today?”

Crowley recounts the story of the telemarketer that called his flat and how he’d kept them on the phone for hours, although telemarketers were nuisances themselves so neither Crowley nor Aziraphale was sure that counted as causing trouble.

“Speaking of calls,” Crowley begins. “I don’t suppose you’ve received any interesting ones? Or any interesting er, communication in general?” Crowley stares at the arm of the couch, picking at invisible lint.

“Any interesting communication?” Aziraphale repeats. “No. There was a strange gentleman who I thought was trying to push me some drugs, but it turned out he was selling candles. That’s about it.”

“Nothing from Heaven? No visits, no messages?” Crowley asks as casually as he can manage given the subject.

“Heaven?” Aziraphale frowns. “No, I haven’t heard anything since our trials. Why, did you-”

A sharp whistling sound makes him jump.

“That’ll be the kettle, I’ll just grab it for you,” Crowley says, rising from his seat and crossing into the kitchen. Perhaps he had miracled the water to boil a little faster than it should have in order to cut the conversation short.

“Anyway,” Crowley starts when he returns, handing the angel a mug. “What were we talking about? Candles? Did you buy any?”

“No, of course. I have far too many candles as it is. And I avoid using them if at all possible since… Well.”

Crowley makes a noise of agreement. If he never saw another flame in the bookshop he would be all too happy about it.

They sit, sipping their drinks.

“So,” Crowley prompts, gesturing at the walls. “Tell me about all this lovely art you’ve got in here. What exactly do you like?”

\---

[1] Signed by the man himself. Aziraphale had met with him on more than one occasion.

[2] Unsigned, but well worn. Some of the pages had stains, creases, handwritten notes. Crowley wasn’t sure that it was Aziraphale’s handwriting.

[3] Crowley had picked up a few of these shells himself. Read [Sandy Memories](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19734736) for details.

[4] Aziraphale still tries very hard not to sell any of his books, but he does on occasion allow students he deems trustworthy to examine some books as needed in their studies. It helps that they sometimes bring him gifts in the form of desserts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I'd love to hear your feedback!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes: light sexual content, though it quickly shifts to a discussion.

Days pass, and Crowley and Aziraphale fall into a set of habits not too unlike their previous set of habits. Aziraphale still tends to his bookshop and Crowley still tends to his plants. They still visit the park, and go to lunch, and drink, and chat. It is much like before, except that they also hold hands, and kiss, and sit much closer together while they do all these things. Sometimes one sits practically in the other’s lap. Sometimes one sits literally in the other’s lap. 

That’s how they are sat together now. Aziraphale is settled comfortably across Crowley’s legs and Crowley is settled comfortably at one end of the loveseat in Aziraphale’s living room. 

Their kisses are easy. They are languid. They are open mouthed and exploratory. They are long and deep and broken only by the occasional sigh or intake of breath or whispering of the other’s name. 

Aziraphale shifts, angles his mouth away and Crowley huffs at the loss. “Don’t stop now, angel,” he whines. “That was– hgsf.” 

The angel’s kiss lands at the pulse point on Crowley’s neck, silencing his complaint. A gentle tug at his hair is all the cue Crowley needs to angle his own head, baring the column of his neck further.

_Salt and earth and ozone._

That’s what Aziraphale thinks as he breathes deep against Crowley’s shoulder, that’s how his demon smells. Butterfly kisses flutter zig-zagged across Crowley’s throat and down. The deep V of his shirt’s neckline acts as a guide that Aziraphale follows without pause though his pace is still unhurried, no discernible urgency in his kisses. He traces the ridge of Crowley’s clavicle, teeth scraping ever so gently and followed by a wet warm tongue. One hand skitters down his torso and stops at his belt buckle.

“Are you trying to tempt me?” Crowey asks breathlessly, teasingly, his head resting against the back of the couch, one hand clutching at the back of Aziraphale’s coat.

“Certainly not.” Aziraphale pulls away from the demon’s clavicle. “I’ve already said that tempting only counts when it’s done to a human.” He returns his mouth to the hollow at the base of the Crowley’s throat, swipes his tongue over it. “You’re not a human.”

“That I am not,” Crowley agrees. “… And neither are you. Hold on,” he says, setting a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder.

The angel returns his tongue to his own mouth and sits up, leaning back a few inches to look at him carefully.

“Can we talk? About sex?” Crowley asks.

“Have I overstepped?”He leans back farther still.

Crowley quickly shakes his head. “No no no, I mean- What you were doing just there? Fantastic. No boundaries crossed. I’d love to continue it in a minute. Okay? Can we talk?”

Aziraphale nods, slides sideways so he is sitting next to him rather than on him.

“Right. So, you’ve had sex before.”

It’s not a question but Aziraphale nods again anyway.

“Okay. Yeah, so have I.” Crowley pulls idly at the fabric of his sleeve. “So, humans… they can be a bit, um, obsessed with it, yes?”

“Some of them, sure.” Aziraphale says slowly. “Lust can be quite powerful.” He watches Crowley carefully, trying to figure out where he’s going with this.

“Right. So, you. Do you ever ... just see someone and straight off think yeah, I’d like to, you know, ehhhh,” he searches for the words, “sleep with them.”

Aziraphale considers this seriously for a minute. “No. I think that sort of thing doesn’t cross my mind unless I’ve come to know them already. Which,” he tilts his head slightly, “Is rare, considering I don’t interact with humans all that often.”

“I see. That’s good. Or, I don’t mean _good_ , I just mean,” he shifts to face the angel. “That’s how I see it too. I’ve been wondering if that’s how other angels and demons feel about it. I don’t imagine sex is quite the same for us as for humans.”

“Mhmm, well I can’t speak for any other angels or demon, but that’s how I generally feel about it. And… I’d agree that sex has a rather different meaning for humans. We’re quite a bit more flexible about our ah, parts, for one thing. And we don’t reproduce.”

“Right. Still feels good though." 

Aziraphale laughs lightly. "Yes, very good."

"Right.” Crowley nods, relaxing, then sits up again. “It wouldn’t uh… be wrong, would it? You and me?”

Aziraphale frowns a the question. “Wrong?”

“I mean, an angel and a demon…” He looks worried, shoulders rising in defense.

“No,” Aziraphale says softly, cupping Crowley’s face and kissing him chastely. “Sex is… a medium of intimacy. One that’s more intense than kissing or holding hands or talking, but a medium nonetheless. There’s nothing wrong about the act itself, and certainly not between us. I’m certain of that.”

The tension fades from Crowley’s figure and he settles back against the couch. 

Aziraphale sets a hand on Crowley’s chest, twisting his fingers into his scarf. “Anything else you want to talk about?”

“Mmm, no.”

“Do you want to continue?” Aziraphale gives the scarf a gentle tug.

“Er. I mean…”

The angel watches his expression. “You can say no, my love. If sex isn’t something you like or want that’s perfectly fine. Now or anytime.”

“Let’s not continue now then. I like it but, another time, okay? Can we just… sit here? Let me hold you?”

Aziraphale smiles, he scoots closer and settles his head against Crowley’s shoulder, pressing closer still when he feels arms wrap around his middle. “I love you,” he sighs. “I love you, Crowley.”

The demon dips his head down to press a kiss to the top of Aziraphale’s head, to take a deep breath and soak in the familiar scent.

_Lavender and citrus and ozone._

Crowley murmurs against his hair, “I love you too.”

\---

“That was a fabulous lunch dear. How did you manage to get a such a nice table? It’s been so busy there these few weeks,” Aziraphale says to Crowley as they walk towards the bookshop.

“Ah, called in a little favor, no big deal. What did you think of the souffle?” 

“Oh, I hadn’t expected it to be-” 

A door bursts open behind them and before either can so much as turn around, there are hands grabbing at each of their shoulders, yanking them to a stop. Crowley jerks and manages to insert himself between Aziraphale and the attacker and then- And then sighs. 

Unless Alice from the flower shop was actually a demon in disguise, they were perfectly safe. Although she was looking a little wild. 

“Mr. Fell! Crowley!” 

Aziraphale leans to one side to peer around Crowley’s shoulder. “Well hello, is everything alright?” 

Alice’s eyes flick from Aziraphale to Crowley and back again. “I need some help making arrangements. If you have a minute. Or a few hours.” 

Aziraphale and Crowley glance at each other.

\---

“Thank you again, Crowley.”

“Don’t thank me, thank Azi- uh, Ezra, for talking me into it,” he replies. Alice makes a mental note that Mr. Fell’s first name is Ezra, apparently. 

“Well, in that case I’ll be sure to send you home with some flowers for him.” 

_Home_. Yes, Aziraphale’s place had become home. Crowley still went back to his own flat daily, but it felt more like an office than home now. Just a place to keep his hobbies. 

“He said you’re quite a gardener yourself, right?” Alice continues 

“Hm, I don’t think I would use the word gardener, but I like to take care of plants, yes. Not so much the flowering variety though.” 

Alice hums as she starts to clear away the leaves and clippings scattered on the work table. “I don’t suppose you know anyone else who likes plants and has an eye for arrangements? Or who wants to learn?” 

Crowley glances over at her as he helps tidy up. “Looking to hire?” He guesses. 

“More of on an as-needed basis, but yes. For when large orders come in. Or for times like this when everything gets here late and I’m stuck scrambling to finish before the event.” She sighs. “I’d almost ask you since you’ve clearly got a knack for this, if I didn’t think you were busy enough as it is.” Actually, Alice wasn’t really sure what Crowley did, but judging by his car and his clothes it was lucrative work, probably something that kept him busy. 

Crowley considers this. “Okay.” 

“Okay what?” 

“I’ll work here when you need it. If you’d like.” 

Alice nearly knocks over a cluster of vases she turns around so fast. “You will?” 

“ ‘M not so busy, really. Retired. I’ve got Ezra of course, but with him running the bookshop I can’t exactly be bothering him all the time. And I’ve got hobbies sure but,” he shrugs. “This was interesting. So, yeah. If you’d like.”

\---

“You got a _job_?” Aziraphale asks incredulously. “When I encouraged you to help her out, I only meant today.”

“Hardly a job,” Crowley replies, waving one hand. “Only as needed work. Just a little… extracurricular. Supporting a local business. I’ll learn a little more about flowers.” 

“By working there.” 

“Upset that I might not need you as my sugar daddy anymore?” Crowley teases. 

Aziraphale chokes on his tea, sputters. “Excuse me?” 

Crowley laughs, sauntering behind him and wrapping his arms around his middle. He presses a kiss to his neck. “Don’t act so surprised, you know that’s what some people think when they see us together. That I’m your young man.” 

Aziraphale hmphs, but leans back into him all the same. “You hardly look young enough for that sort of thing.” 

“Compare to you, I do.” He dances just out of reach as Aziraphale turns around to swat at him. 

“Insufferable,” he says, shaking his head with a smile. “If anything, it’s you who takes care of me. Bringing me out to all these wonderful restaurants and theaters.” 

“Well, there you go, I’m _your_ sugar daddy. I need a job, so I can keep up with all the gifts I lavish on you.” He laughs as Aziraphale only shakes his head again and tuts. “But really,” Crowley says. “Do you think it’s a bad idea? The job?” 

“Not at all, I think it’s a lovely idea. Just unexpected.” 

“Oh well, I’m full of surprises.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know what to do!  
> ...  
> (Hit that comment button. That's what you should do.)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sexual content towards the end, not explicit bc this is rated M after all

Aziraphale hums to himself as he adds a bit of water to a vase, removes a couple flowers that are starting to look too wilted and gets rid of them.

Crowley now regularly brings in bouquets he puts together himself at work, so Aziraphale has started keeping them in the bookshop, a cluster of vibrant color against the mostly neutral palette of the books.

He’s very generous, Aziraphale thinks, bringing him flowers all the time. 

And not just flowers, it’s the lunches and dinners too. The way he is more than happy to pick up the bill, to order an extra round of drinks or dessert. 

And not just food, it’s the little chores around the shop or the flat. The way he straightens books that customers have disturbed, or puts away cups and the kettle after they’ve had tea together.

Another thought comes into Aziraphale’s head and he frowns. Crowley does so much for him, does he do enough for Crowley? He doesn’t present the redhead with gifts, or surprise him with outings. Aziraphale loves him deeply of course, but he’s suddenly feeling self-conscious that he doesn’t show it enough, not in equal to how Crowley shows his love. Has he been taking without giving?

Maybe he would watch him a little more closely today, see if he could pick anything up, see if there’s something more he wants, something more Aziraphale could do for him.

_He’s so good to me, am I the same for him?_

Someone enters the bookshop. Aziraphale breaks out of his pensive mood and forces a smile that quickly melts into a genuine one.

“Evening, angel. Ready to head to dinner?”

It’s a lovely dinner. 

Crowley has the check picked up and paid for before Aziraphale can hardly say a word about it.

\---

“Would you mind if we stop by my flat on the way back?” Crowley asks as he drives. “I picked up a bottle for us to share the other day but I keep forgetting to bring it over.”

“Not all. I’m curious to see how your place looks anyhow. I’ve never seen anything past the outer door.”

“Oh, er, you don’t really need to come up. I’ll just be second.”

“Nonsense, I’ll go with you.”

“Well… okay then.”

They stop by the high-rise building, Aziraphale humming along quietly with the elevator music and watching Crowley’s profile as they travel upwards. The demon catches his eye and gives a soft smile, takes him by the hand and pulls him along to his door.

“And here we are,” he says as he pushes the door open and gestures for Aziraphale to step inside first.

“It’s… nice,” the angel says, eyes sweeping the room.

“You hate it,” Crowley laughs, looking around at the dark walls, the concrete, the lack of softness and abundance of edges.

“I do not!”

“Angel, it couldn’t be farther from your style, I know that, it’s fine. Come on. This you might like.” Settling a hand against his lower back, he brings Aziraphale into the room with the majority of his plants. Some of them shake at his entrance, some are intrigued that he’s not alone.

“Ah! Your plants are gorgeous. Not that I would have expected anything else, but still, to finally see them myself.” Aziraphale looks them over, complimenting each one quietly.

Meanwhile, Crowley stands behind him, giving each leaf a mildly disapproving glare. “Don’t be too kind to them,” Crowley says half-heartedly, reaching for a mister. “I don’t want them expecting this sort of treatment.” He sprays some water at the nearest fern.

As Crowley tends to his plants, misting away and humming softly, keeping an eye out for leaves that are less than lustrous or tips that are starting to go brown, Aziraphale wanders down the hallway. His eye is caught by some paintings on the wall. It’s the room at the end of the hallway that really catches his attention though. 

Everything else he’s seen of Crowley space has been so neatly organized. Everything with a place it belongs in. This room was something else entirely.

There is a wide window taking up much of one wall, the rest are covered with assorted papers, seemingly pinned up at random. Some have scribbled notes, others half-abandoned sketches. The desk near the window is likewise littered with papers, along with pens and pencils and brushes and paint. There are several stacks of canvasses leaned against the walls, four or five to each stack, varying in size.

Aziraphale leans down to examine the one nearest to him. It’s abstract, all dark or muted colors. The rest of the stack gets progressively brighter, more colorful. The angel moves on. The next collection is cute, idyllic. A sunny sky over a field of purple flowers. A raft of ducks swimming across a pond.

He steps to the next set over.

“There you are angel, I got the- ah.” Crowley stops short, bottle in hand. He processes Aziraphale’s presence in the room – in that particular room – and follows the blonde’s line of sight. “Ah,” he says again. 

Aziraphale stares down at the canvas. He takes in the soft brush strokes, the fine details. He takes in the colors, the blending and the contrasts. He takes in the love that the piece feels to be just soaked in.

“Aziraphale?”

The angel doesn’t respond. He looks through the stack, taking in the paintings one after another. They all portray the same subject in a unique way – at different angles, with different moods, in different styles. He lifts one up and peers at the signature scrawled in the lower right corner.

_AJC_

“This… is yours?” He asks finally.

Crowley nods once, though Aziraphale is still turned away and can’t see the response. “I hadn’t meant for you to find them like this,” he says quietly, gesturing at the scattering of painting around the room. “I was going to display all the good ones, have you take a look. Or maybe I’d just bring one to the shop for you.”

“All of these are yours? I-I didn’t even know you painted.”

“I never mentioned it. Not that I was trying to hide it exactly, just. I wanted to get better first. It’s been several hundred years since I first gave it a shot, I’d gotten rusty.” He shifts the bottle to his other hand.

Aziraphale turns his head to look at Crowley at last, his eyes shining. “You paint me?” He looks again to the painting in his hands, stares at the thick golden curls and rosy cheeks, the slightly parted lips.

“Some of the time. You’re a wonderful muse.” Crowley saunters closer, free hand tucked into his pocket. He leans over Aziraphale’s shoulder to look at the piece with him. “That one is uh. How you looked after you kissed me. The first time. Rather, how I remember you looking anyway.”

“It’s… oh Crowley, it’s beautiful. That seems strange for me to say because it’s me, but-”

“But you are beautiful. So it makes perfect sense. I’m glad I captured the moment at least a little.”

Aziraphale swallows hard, glances around the rest of the room. “Do you ever paint yourself?”

“Self portraits? No, never.” _I only paint things I like._

“Would you? If I asked?”

“Uh.” _I think I’d do anything if you asked._

“Something I can put in my living room? I think you would look very nice, pinned against my living room wall.” Aziraphale is acutely aware of how that sounds, as soon as it leaves his mouth, and he tries not to smile.

“Is that so?” Crowley asks, raising his eyebrows. “In that case, I could give it a shot.”

\---

Crowley drives a little faster, a little more recklessly than he normally does as they travel back to Soho. His thought are racing too. He expects the angel to tell him to slow down, to watch for traffic, but he doesn’t. He only observes Crowley quietly.

Aziraphale takes off his coat as they pass through the shop and enter his flat, shrugging it off his shoulders and putting it up on a rack by the door. Crowley hangs back, observing him in turn. 

The angel catches his gaze, smiles and holds out his hand. “Can I take your coat?” Instead of smooth fabric, his palm is covered by smooth skin as Crowley’s hand takes his own, pulls him closer. Crowley dips his head down and presses a kiss to the corner of his lips. Aziraphale turns his face to make it a proper one.

“I was thinking,” Aziraphale begins. “I was thinking, you might like to stay the night? Seems a waste for you to go home since you were just there, and then to come back here again in the morning for work.” His tone is light, casual.

“Hmm.” Crowley ponders this as he kisses him again, slower. “I don’t have my pajamas here,” he says flatly.

“Ah. Fair point.”

“Although.” Crowley nips at his lower lip, settles the wine bottle in his hand down on the nearest flat surface. “Maybe I don’t need pajamas?”

“Ahhh. Another fair poi- oh.”

Crowley follows the line of Aziraphale’s jaw up to his earlobe, tugging gently at it with his teeth. His hands fumble at the angel’s bowtie, deftly untying the knot then working the first button of his shirt loose. 

“Oh. Should I ask what’s gotten into you? Or just enjoy this?” Aziraphale asks, settling his hands at Crowley’s sides.

“The waiter,” Crowley huffs against his neck between kisses, walking him backward until he is pressed against the wall.

“Excuse me?”

“At the restaurant. He was looking at you.”

“Looking at me?”

“Mmm. Too much. Even when I was the one talking to him.” He breaks away from his neck with a wet noise. “You didn’t notice?”

“I didn’t. Are you jealous?”

“Of course not. He has nothing I could be jealous of.” Crowley moves his kisses to the other side of Aziraphale’s neck. “He can look at you, but he doesn’t get to kiss you. He can look at you, but he doesn’t get to undress you.” His hands sink to undo the buttons of Aziraphale’s waistcoat as he talks. “He can look at you, but he doesn’t get to see you. Not like I do.”

“All very true. But I don’t follow how this has you all stirred up.”

Crowley leans back, brings both his hands up to hold the other’s face. “You didn’t notice him looking at you, because you were looking at me. Even when he was talking about the specials, and the wine list, and dessert.” He kisses him on the mouth, quick and chaste. “All day. At the restaurant you hardly looked at your food, at my flat aside from looking at the paintings, in the car you hardly looked at the road. Your eyes were on me. And of course, that remark about pinning me to the wall – you didn’t think I missed that did you?”

Aziraphale laughs, shakes his head. 

“So really I could ask, what’s gotten into you?” He noses against Aziraphale’s jaw. “Because that’s what has me all stirred up.”

“I… didn’t realize you’d noticed,” is all Aziraphale can manage say. 

“Do you want to talk about anything?”

Aziraphale shakes his head again.

Crowley looks him over, looks at his state of undress and the way his tie hangs limply around his neck, looks at the patches of pink starting to blossom on his pale skin. “Do you want to go to bed?”

“I hope you don’t mean for sleeping.”

“Only after other, more spirited activities,” Crowley replies with a smirk.

Aziraphale pushes away from the wall, crowding against Crowley and ushering him towards the bedroom. “Let’s go.”

They fall into bed after much bumping into walls and stealing of kisses and tugging at clothes. Crowley has managed to get Aziraphale bare from the waist up, though he himself has shed only his coat and shoes.

“I’m sort of impressed,” Aziraphale murmurs. “How quickly you got through all those layers.”

“Hmph, I’m rather motivated at the moment. Although I wouldn’t mind if you started wearing less in the future.”

“You should be wearing less now.” Aziraphale raises one hand to remove Crowley’s glasses, but is stopped just as he reaches the frames.

“Don’t.”

Aziraphale takes back his hand, confused.

“You don’t have to take them off. Not during something like… like this.” 

“What do you mean?”

Crowley swallows hard, tries not to frown. “I mean, I know my eyes are like the sun.”

At the angel’s puzzled expression, Crowley elaborates. Aziraphale’s heart feels heavy as he listens, as Crowley shares a small part of his insecurity. 

“I love your eyes. No- I really do,” he says at Crowley’s snort of disbelief. “I want to look at you and see all of you, my dear.” He reaches up and runs a hand through Crowley’s hair. “Your eyes are not the sun to me, they’re stars[1]. I could gaze at them all night.” 

They are both quiet. Aziraphale lifts one hand and sets his fingers on the frame of Crowley’s glasses, asking again silently. Crowley covers Aziraphale’s hand with his own so that they pull the article away from his face together. The angel sucks in a breath and feels Crowley’s hand tighten around his own.

“Beautiful,” he gushes, lest Crowley think his gasp had been a negative reaction.

Crowley stares back. He tosses his glasses vaguely in the direction of the nightstand.

A smile wanders onto Aziraphale’s lips, forming into a full grin. He studies Crowley’s pupils blown wide, almost perfectly round and just outlined by soft amber. Distant stars usually, Aziraphale thinks. But just now, inches away from his own face? A pair of solar eclipses. You couldn’t help but look.

They both surge forward at once, delving into kisses that are messy and rough and probably use too much teeth, but still feel perfect.

Aziraphale pushes Crowley’s shirt up his torso, palms dragging up his belly and chest as he does so.

“Want to see all of you, Crowley.”

“Hhhk,” Crowley groans. He pulls his shirt over his head and shivers. Pulls next at his belt buckle and pants, then Aziraphale’s until they are left bare.

“That’s a lovely effort you’ve made there,” Aziraphale teases.

“And you,” Crowley returns, eyes sweeping over him.

Aziraphale sets a hand on Crowley’s chest. “What do you want to do? What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to have me, Aziraphale. However you’d like.”

There is a glint in the angel’s eyes as he pushes Crowley down to lay on his back, as he moves to sit tucked between his legs. “However I’d like? Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. I trust you.”

“And you’ll tell me to stop, if there’s something you don’t like?”

“I doubt that will happen.”

“But if there is?”

“I’ll tell you to stop.” Crowley half sits up, propping himself on one elbow so he can reach him for a kiss.

Aziraphale eases him back down against the mattress. He peppers slow kisses across his shoulder and down. 

Down his chest. 

Down his belly. 

Down past coarse red curls. 

Down to his thighs and in between.

Crowley loses count of the number of times Aziraphale says “I love you.”

He loses count of the number of praises Aziraphale lays on him; how many times he says “You look so beautiful,” or “You sound so lovely,” or “You feel so good,” or “You taste so sweet.” 

He loses count of the number of times he thinks about how lucky he is to know and have Aziraphale; as a friend, as a lover, beside him, inside him. 

He loses count of the number stars he sees when he tips over the edge, hurtling off at the speed of light, when he feels Aziraphale do the same, travelling on the same wavelength.

He makes a weak noise of protest when the angel leaves the bed minutes afterward, an incoherent jumble of vowels. 

“I’m right here, my love,” Aziraphale says, amused, as he returns a moment later. “Just went to grab a cloth to clean us up.”

Crowley pulls him back down onto the sheets when their bodies are sufficiently clear of mess, holds him against his chest and hooks a leg over his legs. 

“You take such good care of me, angel,” Crowley murmurs against his ear. “You’re so good to me.”

Aziraphale’s breath hitches. “I only wanted to make you feel good.”

“You did. You do. Everyday, with your words and your touches. The ‘my dears’ and the hand holding. The sweet messages you leave on my answering machine. You’re always so good to me.”

Aziraphale hugs him tight, and Crowley sighs contentedly at the pressure.

"I'm so happy to hear you think that, my love," Aziraphale says. 

They fall asleep, limbs tangled.

\---

Crowley notices at once when he wakes that the sheets he lays against aren’t his own. They are soft, but not the same kind of soft, and they are a bit heavier than his own. He starts to sit up, but a head against his chest weighs him down, an arm draped over his middle keeps him locked in place.

_Ah. Not my bed._

He looks down with a smile and pets a hand through Aziraphale’s curls and down his back, not even minding the small puddle of angel drool that’s beginning to form on his chest. It’s sort of endearing. 

When Aziraphale does wake, he makes a face at the puddle, wiping his cheek, and then Crowley’s chest with the corner of the sheets. 

“You should have woken me,” Aziraphale chides. 

“I didn’t see a real reason to.” 

Aziraphale smiles and gives him a chaste kiss before moving to lay beside him. “It was a good idea that you stay the night then, wasn’t it? Instead of going home.” 

“I am home,” Crowley says matter-of-factly as he turns onto his side and slides one hand down Aziraphale’s middle to rest against his hip. 

“Is that your way of telling me you want to move in? 

No, nothing of the sort. Just that… Home is where the heart is…” He clears his throat and turns onto his back to stare up at the ceiling. “Or whatever it is that people say.” Crowley feels Aziraphale’s hand against his cheek, turning his face toward him. His eyes look more gray than blue, in the filtered morning light. 

“I love you, Crowley,” he says sweetly, leaning in to press a kiss to the tip of his nose. “And that’s very sweet of you to say.” He glances at the clock on the wall and lets out a dejected sigh. “I would love to stay in, but we both have work today. Come on, get up.” 

Even as Aziraphale rolls out of bed, Crowley lays just a little longer, to admire the view.

\--- 

[1] Yes, the sun IS a star but, you get the idea. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I noticed a lot of mistakes when I was editing, and I'm pretty sure I got all of them, but let me know if you notice any other typos or something?
> 
> And of course, let me know what you thought of the story!


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